Cruel and Beautiful
by Dala1
Summary: Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy connect in ways they've never foreseen (warning: slash)
1.

Title: Cruel and Beautiful  
Author: Dala  
Rating: strong R  
'Ship: Harry/Malfoy, Ron/Hermione  
Archive: sure, just make sure you ask me first  
Dedication: To Amanda, who helped out and, shock of shocks, liked it :) Thanks babe!  
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co. I'm not making any money off this, blahblahblah  
Warning: This story contains slash of a m/m nature. Translation: two boys gettin' it on. If that squicks you, I suggest you look elsewhere. Flames are acceptable though, since I can make s'mores over them.   
  
  
  
Hermione and Ron were fighting.  
  
*Again*, Harry thought in exasperation as he sipped his pumpkin juice. He was stuck in the middle as usual, Ron to his left and Hermione to his right. The frosty silence seemed to chill their hot breakfast, though he preferred silence to conversation, which required him to divert his attention between the two. Ron would strike up a Quidditch debate, Hermione would ask him what he thought of the Astrology homework, and he would fire back answers to either side. It was starting to give him whiplash.  
  
They'd done this for years, of course, but it got worse with all the romantic involvement. One moment both his friends were deliriously happy, the next they'd be tearing each other's throat out. Harry knew it was a distinctive mark of their relationship, but sometimes, it was really too much.  
  
The mail came then. Of them all, only Ron had a message; a short note from Charlie, who had gone to Somalia some months before. He held up a dragon tooth with a grin. Hermione sniffed and began talking to Ginny across the table.  
  
A frown crossed Ron's face as he read further. Harry leaned over to see what had displeased him. He found it on the third line from the bottom.  
  
  
Hope you'll find something to do with this. Maybe you could start a necklace for Herm?  
  
  
Harry hid a grin behind his fork as Ron shot a glare at the aforementioned girl.  
  
The owls were still fluttering about the Great Hall. Harry glanced around, curious to see if anyone had gotten something interesting. Pansy Parkinson was gloating over a large, paper-wrapped object that had been brought in by two disgruntled eagle owls. Probably a new dress for Hogsmeade trips, equally as ugly as her other dresses.  
  
His eye, as it usually did, came to rest on Draco Malfoy. The Slytherin had been bragging about the new Cloudsport 5000 his father had promised to send him. But Malfoy had received only a letter. As Harry watched, Malfoy's eyes ran over it quickly, blinked, then started over at the beginning. When he had read it through six times, Harry's interest was piqued. What on earth did it say?  
  
For a moment he was afraid that Malfoy could read minds, because the other boy looked up from his letter and met Harry's stare directly.  
  
It wasn't the usual challenge, or hatred, or scorn. It wasn't even indifference. Malfoy looked, for an instant, lost.   
  
Then his handsome features hardened. He lifted his chin arrogantly at Harry and stood up, nearly knocking Goyle off the bench. At the same time Hermione announced, "I'm not terribly hungry this morning," and stood as well, a collection of Muggle poems clutched in her hand.   
  
Harry saw it a split second before it happened. Malfoy, striding toward the door, ignored the path of his shoulder as it hit Hermione's, making her stagger. Ron jumped to his feet, one hand clenched into a fist and the other on his wand.  
  
She shook her head and said loudly, "I guess Draco's mother never taught him about the 'ladies first' rule."  
  
Harry frowned. That simply wasn't like Hermione. Whatever she and Ron were arguing about, it must be worse than normal.  
  
Something extraordinary happened then. Malfoy could take a lot of crap -- Harry had seen him do so -- but at Hermione's words he stiffened. He seemed to sag for just a second, as if he'd been struck, before he whirled around. His face was contorted into an expression that would do a Death-Eater proud.  
  
"Don't take your problems out on me just because you can't hold the attention of a sodding Weasley, you Mudblood bitch!"  
  
Hermione's mouth fell open and the people who were seated closest to them uttered a collective gasp. Malfoy's nastiness was expected, yes, but it wasn't usually so open or vulgar.  
  
Harry found his own wand in his hand and a thousand curses on his lips, but Ron got there first, and he didn't bother with magic.  
  
"Listen, you slime-eating bastard--" He grabbed Malfoy by the collar of his robe, the other arm drawn back threateningly.  
  
Malfoy smirked, looking far more at ease with himself than he had been a moment ago. "Try it, Weasley. Just try it."  
  
Ron (and half the Gryffindors after him) would have, except that Professor McGonagall had made her way to their table.  
  
"Students!" Her voice was the equivalent of a ruler hitting one's knuckles. Ron immediately let go, though there was a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Is there a problem?" Her glare indicated that there had better not be.  
  
Harry was tempted to tell her what Malfoy had said, and he thought Ron might, but his best friend dropped his gaze to the floor. "No ma'am," he said in a soft voice.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
He shrugged, a nasty grin on his face. Harry wanted badly to help it off, and Malfoy's nose might look better crooked, and he was too pale -- a bruise or two would give him color.  
  
McGonagall narrowed her eyes, plainly disbelieving them, but it was a firm opinion of hers that these four should to work things out on their own. As long as they didn't hurt anyone else -- or each other, at least not too much. Lucius Malfoy's son was not one of her favorite students.  
  
She waited until Draco had sauntered off. Crabbe and Goyle were waiting for him at the door to the Slytherin quarters, looking thuggish and eager for a fight. He sent them away with a few sharp words and they wandered dejectedly back to their breakfasts. Hermione picked up her book and hurried off to her own room.  
  
Harry said to Ron, without having to look at him, "You're going after him, aren't you."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I want to come."  
  
Ron shook his head, bright hair scattering. His eyes were filled with a fierce intent. "Let me do this alone, Harry."  
  
In a curious way, Harry understood. It was stupid, but it was about honor and promises and love and Ron needed to go alone.  
  
He watched Ron flex an arm experimentally. He had been a skinny child, but hadn't stayed that way for long; these days giggly first-years gathered behind trees to peek at Ron Weasely when he went swimming in the lake. This issue wouldn't be settled with spells.  
  
Ron shot Harry a cocky grin, some of the anger leaving his eyes. "Sorry you get to miss out on all the fun."  
  
Harry chuckled. "So'm I. Just make sure Crabbe and Goyle don't see you leave." He nodded and followed Malfoy, glancing over to make sure the two Slytherin cronies were paying him no attention (they weren't, as they were stuffing themselves with eggs from Malfoy's plate).   
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
An hour later he and Hermione were alone in the common room, on a break before Potions. They were grumbling about Snape when the Fat Lady's portrait swung aside, allowing Ron to stagger in. They could hear her clicking her tongue in sympathy and Harry was inclined to agree.  
  
Ron threw his cloak aside; under it his shirt was torn and bloodied beyond repair, the sweater nowhere to be seen. He was favoring his right leg, his hair looked like Pigwidgeon had been nesting in it, and his left eye was partially closed, a splendid purpleness blooming all around it.  
  
Hermione cried out "Oh!" and darted across the room to him. Harry followed, reaching them just in time to help her catch Ron as he fell. He slumped in their arms as they helped him to an oversized armchair.  
  
Ron groaned as he stretched his long frame out. Harry grabbed his wand from the table and muttered "Accio!", picturing the icebox in the kitchen. He hoped it didn't collide with anyone on its way upstairs as he went over to the portrait to retrieve it.   
  
Hermione dropped beside Ron, her hands fluttering anxiously over his face without actually making contact. "Oh," she said again. "Oh, Ron . . ." She touched cuts and scratches where his shirt was ripped, looking up at his face questioningly.  
  
"We kind of, ah, stumbled into the Forest," he explained, wincing as he felt the lump on his skull where he'd knocked it on a tree stump.  
  
"You idiot," Hermione whispered, kissing his earlobe, which didn't look damaged. Suddenly she jumped up. "Madame Pomfrey! I'll just get her--"  
  
"No!" Harry and Ron said together.  
  
She looked over at Ron again, seemingly as miserable as he was. "But she--"  
  
"Will turn us in," Ron said flatly. "You know the teachers are all tired of this little war."  
  
"She'll help you," Hermione insisted. "She'll make you stop hurting." Tears began to pool in her eyes.   
  
Ron made a beckoning motion. "It's not so bad, Hermione."  
  
Harry caught the ice as it whizzed obediently to him. "Got ice," he announced.  
  
Hermione hesitated. "Healing spells--" she began.  
  
"Ought to be used on something more significant than the results of a fistfight," Ron said, hissing in pain as he placed the bag of ice over his eye. "Thanks, Harry."  
  
"You're welcome." Harry took a seat opposite and shook his head. "I hope Malfoy looks as bad as you do."  
  
Ron just grinned, then grimaced as it caused his cheeks to ache.  
  
"Here," Hermione said, taking the ice from him, "let me." Her hands were gentle, though her tone sounded extremely put-out. Ron let his head drop into her lap with a satisfied sound.  
  
Harry fidgeted, thinking that they ought to be alone. He made a pretense of looking at his watch. "Damn. Potions."  
  
Hermione bit her lip, clearly debating whether or not she should go. It was ended when Ron, his eyes still closed, his hand tightening around hers, murmured, "Stay with me?"  
  
She smiled tenderly at Ron and Harry marveled at the look in her eyes. Hermione always appeared mature, but this was different. It was as though something inside her had seen the future and whatever it was made her supremely happy. "You'll tell Snape that I'm not feeling well?"  
  
Returning her serene smile, he said, "Of course." He clapped Ron on the shoulder (very carefully). "Get better quick."  
  
"Yup," said Ron wearily. "Have fun in Potions." Harry snorted at the likelihood of that, deciding it best to mention that he didn't intend to go to Potions at all, and left.  
  
Ron and Hermione were silent for awhile. Finally she asked, "Why'd you do it, Ron?"  
  
"He deserved it," Ron replied forthrightly. "He shouldn't have said what he said to you."  
  
"I shouldn't have said what I did about his mother, either."  
  
Ron scowled. "Completely different."  
  
She shook her head angrily. "It isn't! You know, Ron, sometimes you just--"  
  
He sat up and silenced her with a cautious but long kiss. When it was over, she grinned wryly. "Oh. Right."  
  
They settled back amongst the pillows, hoping no one would come in to disturb them. Threading his fingers through her thick hair, Ron said, "It was strange, though."  
  
"What, love?" She traced the freckles on his arm.  
  
"Malfoy. He didn't put up much of a fight."  
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Did you give yourself a good thrashing then?"  
  
His fair skin blushed. "Actually, that's closer to the truth . . . we wandered over near the Whomping Willow, you see . . ."  
  
"Uh-huh," she said, her lips pursing in amusement.  
  
"Don't make fun of the injured man!"  
  
"Correction: the man injured by a *tree*."  
  
"As I was saying," Ron continued petulantly, "Malfoy wasn't really trying. Said some nasty words, like he always does, but not much beyond that. It almost seemed like . . . like he *wanted* me to hit him."  
  
"Hmm." She had worked her way up his shoulder and was now trailing her finger down his chest, curling sparse red hairs around it. "That *is* strange." For good effect her mouth joined her hand, and suddenly Malfoy's reticence in fighting didn't seem so important anymore.  
  
Soon they were *really* hoping no one would come in.  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Harry found him at a staircase near the Slytherin rooms. You had to open a door to get to it, but the stairs themselves led nowhere. Typical of Hogwarts. He was sitting at the top, in the pitch dark.  
  
"Malfoy."  
  
The boy in the darkness groaned softly. "Must you call me that?"  
  
"It's your name," Harry said, a bit confused.  
  
"No," Draco Malfoy said with soft vehemence. "It's my father's name. 'Deny thy father and refuse thy name . . .'" Harry couldn't see him properly, but he thought Malfoy must have a smirk on his face. He usually did. The words were vaguely familiar. "Muggle poet by the name of Shakespeare, ever hear of him?"  
  
Harry blinked. "Uh, I think so."  
  
"Not bad with words, that man." Malfoy took a swig of something in a green bottle. "Listen, if you're coming up shut the door; if you're not, go the hell away."  
  
Nearly thirty seconds passed before Harry took his wand out of his pocket, conjured a small ball of golden light, and shut the door behind him.  
  
As he climbed the long flight of stairs he saw Malfoy clearly for the first time. The dim light brought out the shadows under his eyes, accentuated his fine bone structure. Not powerful like Ron, not average like Harry either. He was built on lines that were slim but strong. His skin was flawless, his hair shone. His face was cruel and beautiful.  
  
Harry felt himself tremble once and he didn't know why.  
  
He reached Malfoy, who held out the bottle. Harry took it and sniffed. "Wine?"  
  
"Port," Malfoy answered. It was only half-empty. He was definitely not drunk. "Nicked it from the kitchen."  
  
Shrugging, Harry took a swallow. It was potent stuff, bitter and sweet at once. He handed the bottle back and sat two steps down from Malfoy.  
  
"Why have you come here, Potter?"  
  
Harry didn't answer the question because he didn't know how. Instead he said, "I can't call you by your last name, but you can call me by mine?"  
  
Malfoy did smirk this time, and Harry was a little relieved. He was used to that; the conversational Malfoy was something new.  
  
"You're the only Potter in the world now -- the only one that matters, anyway. Your name is you. Me, now, I'm not my father." He tipped the bottle and repeated, "I'm not."  
  
Harry remembered the storm that had raged the night Hagrid had found him, when the Dursleys had taken him to that horrid little island. By witchlight Malfoy's eyes were the exact color of that storm.  
  
Malfoy peered at him, suddenly intense. "Do you know that, Potter? I don't think you do. I'm not one of his. Voldemort's. Or my father's, take your pick."  
  
It was such a shock to hear someone other than himself utter Voldemort's name that it took Harry a moment to process Malfoy's words. "You're not?" he said dumbly. Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Harry blushed. "I guess -- I guess I always thought, like father like son . . ."  
  
"Maybe for you, Potter." Malfoy paused, then said as though he were describing the weather, "I had a little sister when I was six. A baby sister. She was a Squib, born without magic, as good as a Muggle child." He stopped and bit his lip, not with pain, but like he was remembering something very fuzzy. "My mother -- no, my father took her out one night and never brought her back."  
  
"What happened to her?"  
  
"She was killed." Casual. Another sip from the green bottle. "He told me years later."  
  
Harry gaped. "That's awful." It occurred to him then that Malfoy could be lying, but for some reason he didn't think so.  
  
The other boy shook his head, a sad smile upon his lips. "Do you know, I'd almost completely blocked that memory out. Haven't thought about her for years. I've dreamt about her, though." His voice was dreamy; his eyes stared past the wall to something Harry couldn't see.  
  
"What was her name?"   
  
Again the soft voice, sounding like he was six years old again. "Charlotte. Charlotte Malvolia Malfoy." He grimaced at the last two words. "My mother always did have a flair for the dramatic." He looked at Harry again, his eyes revealing nothing but gray shadows. "She's dead, my mother. That's what the owl today was."  
  
Harry cast his eyes downward. "I'm sorry." He thought of his own mother and ached all over again. No wonder Malfoy had reacted so strongly to Hermione's comment.  
  
Malfoy shrugged one elegant shoulder. "She was a cold, heartless shell of a woman, but she was my mum. And that's why I snapped at Granger today."  
  
Frowning, Harry remembered the look on Hermione's face -- Ron's black eye -- his whole damned time at Hogwarts . . . what was he *doing* here? He looked at Malfoy, but could feel none of the usual rancor. Maybe it was the story he'd told about his baby sister, maybe it was the smoke of his eyes. Maybe it was something inside Harry himself.  
  
Malfoy sighed and came close to echoing Harry's thoughts. "I don't know, maybe we're all just growing up -- I thought we'd be done by now actually." Despite himself Harry chuckled. He'd never noticed it because it was usually put to an unkind use, but Malfoy was awfully funny.  
  
They both took a moment to reflect on that: it was the last month of their sixth year. They were seventeen. One more year at Hogwarts, and then what?  
  
Again Malfoy demonstrated an uncanny knack at vocalizing Harry's thoughts. "Do you ever get frightened, Potter? About the future?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Harry reached for the bottle and drank some.  
  
"You're going to have to save the world, you know." Malfoy quirked a thin blond eyebrow at him. He was right, of course. It would all come to a head soon.  
  
"Yes, I know. It does frighten me." Slowly he continued, "So badly that I wake up shaking sometimes. Thinking of Voldemort, usually, but often just thinking of the people who'll depend on me. The lives I'll be responsible for."  
  
"I'm afraid," Malfoy confessed in a low voice without meeting Harry's eyes. "I'm afraid of the day I'll have to stand up to my father, because that, like your day as a hero, will have to come eventually."  
  
"I've never even known you to be afraid," Harry said honestly.  
  
"You've never asked."  
  
"Well, no."  
  
Malfoy looked at him now, hesitant for the first time. "I was afraid of you."  
  
Harry blinked. In Diagon Alley? "What? Why?"  
  
"You mattered to me." Malfoy's gaze caught and held his own. Green eyes locked and connected with gray. "I didn't even know who you were, but I saw you and . . . you mattered. It terrified me."  
  
Harry didn't know why, and he suspected Malfoy didn't know either. "Is that why you acted the way you did?" It really would explain a lot.  
  
"Partly, yes. And partly," Malfoy said, making a sweeping motion with the wine bottle, "because I'm a fucked-up arrogant prick."  
  
"Can't argue with you there," Harry said, deadpan. Malfoy laughed, the first honest laugh Harry had ever heard from him. He created a few light balls of his own, swirling them around in patterns, making them chase Harry's around. In the increased glow Harry could see that Malfoy was bruised even worse than Ron. He wondered why he hadn't noticed before.  
Malfoy saw him looking and twisted his lips in a sardonic smile. "Old Weasley really did a number on me, eh?"  
  
"Ron is . . . well, he and Hermione--"  
  
Malfoy waved a hand in dismissal. "I know. I actually have to commend him for defending his girl like that."  
  
"Hermione could've defended herself," said Harry hotly. "And I offered to come   
along."  
  
"Did you now," said Malfoy slowly, his eyes sweeping over Harry, who found himself blushing. "Harry Potter." His eyes . . . Harry wanted to look away, fought the pull momentarily before he gave in. "Come here, Potter. I want to look at you."  
  
Inexplicably, Harry found himself crossing the two steps that separated them on his hands and knees. He crawled up until he was beside Malfoy, the other boy's face gazing down into his own.  
  
"Harry Potter," he repeated quietly. God, those eyes, the voice . . . "The Boy Who Lived." Breath warm on his face. "Harry." Mouth, full and soft, cruel and beautiful. Cruel and beautiful.  
  
He was waiting and Harry said exactly the thing he knew would be the key.  
  
"Draco."  
  
Draco leaned forward then, permission granted, and kissed him. 


	2. 

Harry, contrary to popular belief, was not a virgin. There was a pretty barmaid in Hogsmeade who had shared her friendly bed with him on more than one occasion. But nothing in his experience with sex could compare to this one simple kiss. He felt like his life was being pulled out, his whole being transported into the mysterious cavern that was Draco's mouth. And Draco was in turn being offered to Harry: everything he was, everything he had ever been, everything he could become. Draco's hand rested on his knee and Harry felt it like a licking flame.  
  
The hand was what yanked him back into the world. He felt the hand, he heard the distant sound of students walking in the hallway outside, and he became aware of the taste of blood. He pulled back sharply.  
  
Draco made a tut of annoyance. Then he raised a hand to his lower lip, which had been split in the fight and had starting bleeding freely from the new pressure. He looked down at the blood on his fingers, bright in the light from the swirling, glowing balls. "Huh. Didn't even feel that one."  
  
Harry took the edge of his robe and pressed it to the wound without saying a word. Draco looked at him; he let his hand come to rest at the small of Harry's back. Feeling something that made his throat close and his eyes smart, Harry leaned closer until he was inches away from Draco's face, but he did not kiss him. He began to run his fingers over the injured flesh, brushed pale hair back from the cut on Draco's forehead. He looked into the storm-gray eyes and saw desire, impatience, a hungry need that sent a thrill coursing through his body.  
  
But no fear. So why did Harry himself feel so afraid?  
  
Draco was watching his eyes too, and he said in a low, quivering voice, "Do you believe in fate, Harry?"  
  
"I don't . . . I don't know."  
  
"We've spoken of these things we're meant to do, things we know will come, and I think . . . I think this is something we're meant to do. And I think you knew it, and I knew it, all these years, but we didn't *know* we knew it."  
  
Harry closed his eyes for a moment. "That makes more sense than it should." He kissed Draco then, still holding the cloth to his lower lip. Draco parted his legs and Harry slid forward on the step until he was kneeling between them, his arms around Draco's waist, their mouths fiercely dueling.  
  
It was Draco who broke away this time. "You're shaking," he said. Harry was; he could feel a violent trembling throughout his whole body. Part of it was craving and part of it was the fear that even now, encased in Draco's slender limbs, he couldn't seem to shake.  
  
"Shhh," Draco murmured, stroking Harry's dark hair and reminding him of Hermione's concern for Ron earlier today. Is this what you feel? he thought in her direction. No wonder it makes you fight like that; it's terrifying. And it's beautiful.  
  
Cruel and beautiful.  
  
Draco freed one arm and fumbled for his wand. He said a spell Harry had never heard of and suddenly the stone they were sitting on became the softest down.  
  
Harry touched the stairs that had just been Transfigured into a bed and laughed in astonishment.  
  
Looking pleased with himself, Draco shared his laughter for a moment. Then they both faded into silence; their eyes met and they leapt at each other, tumbling back in the enormous bed. Through a confused jumble of body parts and kisses, they managed to shed their clothes; Draco maneuvered himself until he was poised above Harry, looking down into eyes that were wide and green. As he removed Harry's glasses, Harry recalled things Uncle Vernon had said about people like Draco, about -- he supposed, in what was more of an acknowledgment than a revelation -- about people like himself, ugly words that made the mouth twist like it had encountered something sour. He ran his hands down Draco's shoulder blades, his slim pale thighs, and felt no sense of shame.  
  
Draco chuckled, shifting his hips to bring his groin into contact with Harry's, making Harry gasp. "Boy, if my father could see me now . . . I'm supposed to despise you, Potter, not fuck you."  
  
"Are you now," Harry said in a mimic of Draco's earlier words. His world had narrowed to a very small number of outside factors: Draco's body against his, the soft sheet beneath him, and the dancing lights above their heads. The rest could be summed up in the pounding of his heart and the throbbing of blood through his veins. "I'm new at this, you know," he said awkwardly.  
  
"I'm not," Draco responded, a mere statement of the facts. Harry nodded.A few more searing kisses, hands exploring each other's bodies, and Draco gently prodded Harry over onto his stomach. Draco said something in Latin, another spell Harry guessed he'd find in the restricted books, and he felt a cool, jelly-like substance being spread gently over his skin, coating the finger that Draco slid inside him. The strange pressure wasn't painful, but it made his limbs twitch. He felt Draco's hardness against him and a flutter of fear made its way to his fever-addled head.  
  
"Does it hurt?"  
  
"Yes," Draco whispered into his ear.   
  
Then with a thrust he was inside, and it did hurt. Harry panicked and struggled beneath him. Draco's arms slipped around him, stroking him. "Don't fight me, Harry," he said in a soothing voice. "Don't fight it, don't deny what we both know has to be." His rhythm gentled, his lips trailing soft wet kisses across his lover's shoulders. Words poured forth from his throat, euphonious words that no one had ever heard him speak, least of all the boy lying beneath him. "Ah, Harry, my sweet . . . the Boy Who Lived . . . the Boy Who *Lives* . . ."   
  
Draco's voice caused Harry to relax, his busy hands caused him to feel something of the joy he knew was owed to him. Yes, that was it, it was better, that was . . . Harry often thought in terms of Quidditch; he had likened sex with Lenira the barmaid to chasing the Golden Snitch. This was completely different, this was like the whole game at once: he and Draco both were the Snitch, the Seeker, the Bludger, the Beater, the Keeper and the goal . . .  
  
"Harry, my love . . ." Draco was murmuring, heated breath at Harry's ear.  
  
"My love," Harry repeated hoarsely. "*Mine*."  
  
"Yes," said Draco, "yours. Always yours. Only yours."  
  
And Harry came with a cry that was muffled by the pillows, and Draco did the same with one muffled in Harry's neck.  
  
His muscles twitching, Draco fell heavily to Harry's side, one arm still locked tight around him. When he could catch his breath and think clearly Harry shifted over, away from the sticky mess they'd made. Draco caught him tightly from behind, clutching as though he feared Harry would get up and leave.  
  
Harry had no such intentions. He didn't want to move for a good long time.  
  
Eventually the silence was broken when Draco said, "What did you see, Harry?"  
  
He thought of Hermione's eyes when she looked at Ron. He thought of seeing his mother and his father in the Mirror of Erised, his first year at Hogwarts. He thought of Hagrid's creatures, Cedric, Fawkes, the centaurs, the ceiling of the Great Hall, polyjuice potion, Fleur Delacour's sister, Professor Trelawny, the sun on the lake, Nicholas Flemel, Wormtail, Moaning Myrtle. As he watched the two remaining lights -- one his and one Draco's -- glow self-importantly above his head, he wondered what the Mirror would show him right now.  
  
"I saw the future," he said. Draco smiled in the darkness  
  
~~~~~~~~  
End 


End file.
